


crooked kind

by 24bookworm68



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Autistic Character, Autistic Pines Family, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, HARD gen, Hurt/Comfort, a not insignificant chunk of the second half, and that's what happens, is righteous anger over Ford, or Ford Acquiring The Fabled Affection, or like four, rampant simile overuse, since it turned mostly into a Stan character study, tbh there's a lot of focus on Ford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7561429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24bookworm68/pseuds/24bookworm68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ˈkro͝okəd<br/>adjective<br/>1.<br/>bent or twisted out of shape or out of place.<br/>2. informal<br/>dishonest or illegal.</p><p>(aka Stan Pines, family, autism, and the influences of the previous three on each other.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	crooked kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azhdarchidaen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azhdarchidaen/gifts).



> this isn't the Study The Laugh Lines update but it is something i wrote so i could finish the stll update (which is coming along nicely!) because sometimes you just gotta scrape your brain into a pile and dump whatever comes out onto a page, my dudes. ANYWAY: this is based... kind of a lot on my own personal experiences and thought processes as an autistic person who's pretty good at fooling the allistics on my good days so if it's a little weird or incomprehensible or whatever, that's why. [vague flap] warnings for a bit of internalized ableism because it's Stan, nothing major.

So it’s like this: things are suspiciously easy with the kids.

Not easy like they get along easy because, y’know,  _ yikes _ , Stan didn’t ask to babysit these kids he barely knows for the summer, like, they were cute babies but twelve-almost-thirteen year olds have. Thoughts and stuff. ( _ And they’re twins. He doesn’t forget that. He never forgets that, it’s always at the back of his head and they both remind him of Ford in their own uncomfortable ways and it makes him feel every inch the impostor he is and. Yeah. _ )

But it’s like this: something capital-c-Clicks, like, little things they do keep making a surprising amount of sense and Dipper keeps giving him this startled rabbit look when they do those things and. Squinting? At him when he just lets it slide.

And Stan might be an idiot but after a week or so he realizes the things that his brain goes  _ yeah, sounds right _ are the same kinda things him and Ford got a lot of shit for as kids and. Right.  _ Right. _

That’s what it is.

It’s Dipper chewing on his pens until they explode in a splatter of ink Rorschach would be proud of. It’s Mabel wearing heavy sweaters in the middle of the summer and insisting it’s like, he quotes, a hug that never stops. It’s the frayed, distant memory of Ford making quarters and pencils and seashells dance in between his fingers. It’s Stan’s voice falling into a sing-song when he’s alone and the buzz in his brain when a word sounds exactly right and repeat, and repeat, and repeat.

Things make a little more sense after that.

( _ What it is is this: being seven years old and swinging up and up and up and slipping off the swing and the heady weightless feeling that precedes the crush of landing on the sand and it’s the panicked snap of Ford’s voice and it’s not knowing whether the incomprehension of the moment is Ford being impossible to understand when he’s freaking - bad word choice! - out or words in general being impossible to understand, isn’t it funny, isn’t that hilarious, isn’t it isn’t it isn’t it. _ )

( _ It’s teaching himself to read people - that  _ this _ twist of the face means  _ this _ and  _ that _ one means  _ that _ because he’s a conman and he needs to make a million dollars and he needs to afford food that week and he needs to pay off Rico’s goons and not get a bullet in his fucking head, hey! _ ) ( _ It’s that he still needs a second to get it, it’s that he still reads agitation in the click of a pen easier than anything else, it’s that happiness is bouncing and fluttery hands and it’s - it’s - it’s a lot of things, is what it is. _ )

It’s lying, it’s this mantra of  _ nothing weird’s going on in this town _ despite knowing otherwise, it’s working  _ you’re over-reacting, kid _ into his mental list of phrases so it comes out natural, flippant, casual, not the stilted exaggerated whatever the hell that comes out of his mouth when he has to scramble for a new set of words for a lie, it’s imagining those kids strung out with panic and  _ hurt _ the way Ford was  _ that night _ and it hurts because he’s starting to sorta maybe definitely care about them and they remind him so much too much of his brother already, remind him of  _ himself _ too much already, all too-loud voices like banners across the sky like t-shirt flags on the mast of a sailboat, all ringing laughs and rough affection and wild hair and dancing hands that make  _ sense _ in the sort of way air makes sense after the current drags you down and down and.

Okay, so he loves them a little bit. A lot of bits.  _ Okay _ ! All the more reason to lie through his teeth because it’s the only thing he’s good at and keep them safe because he can’t keep failing at keeping his family out of trouble he can’t he can’t he can’t. ( _ He can still hear Ford screaming, “DO SOMETHING, STANLEY,” he can still see that bright blue light that set a headache pounding in his head _ ) ( _ He’s trying. He’s  _ trying _ , Stanford. _ )

And it’s Mabel hiding in her sweaters on bad days and it’s Dipper giving him this wide-eyed look like  _ I don’t have the words to tell you why I don’t have any words _ but it’s also Mabel’s jokes and Dipper’s dry retorts and Mabel’s art projects and Dipper’s mysteries and it’s fireworks and it’s water balloons and it’s  _ happiness _ it’s  _ contentment _ it’s the buzz in his brain that says  _ safe place _ .

And then Ford comes back. ( _ And then Stan  _ gets _ Ford back, is the point, he  _ does _ it and gets a punch to the face and it doesn’t make sense and his brother was the one person who ever made sense without trying and -  _

_ \- it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter. _

_ He has the kids. _ )

It’s tip-toeing around the place he’s made home for the last thirty years, it’s more trouble with sleeping than usual, it’s the weight of  _ you give me my house back, you give me my name back  _ \- it’s  _ pain _ is what it is. It’s every conversation he planned out in his head for thirty - well, forty - years repeating in his head like he’s  _ fucking nine years old _ and there’s a ring of bullies and  _ did you really think he’d understand did you really think he’d forgive you did you really think you could do even this one thing right you stupid worthless  _ \- the thing is that he really did think that.  _ Idiot _ .

It’s  _ it was an accident I promise can you forgive me _ it’s  _ I didn’t expect you to stick up for me with Dad but you closed the curtains  _ it’s  _ did you worry about me _ it’s  _ was anybody watching your back _ it’s  _ what had you so scared were you sleeping who hurt you who do I have to kill  _ it’s  _ I shouldn’t have started that fight  _ it’s  _ did you miss me? I missed you like a hole in the head I don’t know how to deal with anything without you. _

And then the world goes all technicolor fucking nightmare and Stan’s - Stan can’t worry about Ford, Stan can’t worry about somebody who’s made it clear he couldn’t give less of a shit about him, Stan’s sitting in the middle of this heap of steaming  _ whatever _ and he’s lost the kids and he’s lost Soos but he can keep a couple of the people and other things around safe and if he’s proven anything over the years it’s that he has the survival skills of a cockroach.

And Dipper gives a good inspiring speech but he doesn’t wanna risk his life for another punch in the face, alright? ( _ He knows it’s selfish. He doesn’t care _ .)

And Mabel says  _ I believe in us! _ And he still doesn’t buy it but it’s so hard to say no to that face and he’s not - he’s not gonna let her, let either of them, jump into this nonsense after Ford without him. 

And they’re breaking into the stupid pyramid and his brother’s all excited to see everyone but him -  _ ouch _ \- and drawing a dumb circle on the floor and anticipation in the little flutter of his fingers -  _ ouch,  _ Stan hates how it’s still so easy to read his brother when he still needs a minute for the world at large - and he  _ knows _ it’s petty to stall on their only plan to save the world because he wants a thank you but  _ for shit’s sake _ .

And, “Grammar, Stanley,”  _ seriously _ ? Seriously.

And he’s a  _ fucking idiot _ but he always had that temper, never could hold back when his brain catapulted him from happy to raging like the flip of a switch never could listen to the little voice in his head that said maybe he should just calm down always too loud too fast too much too much and the kids are distracting the damn triangle and Ford’s yelling and Stan can’t find the words and he can’t find the words and then when they jump to the tip of his tongue it’s “What do we do what do we  _ do _ ?” Because Ford’s the genius Ford’s gotta have the answers.

It’s  _ Dad was right  _ it’s  _ I am a screw-up  _ it’s  _ how did things get so messed up between us _ .

It’s grabbing Ford’s arm like this is still easy like they’re still kids like there’s  _ the world _ on one side of the line and  _ Stanley and Stanford _ on the other it’s Ford laughing like he made a joke, it’s funny, it’s funny, he’s not using his brain for anything, it’s  _ you and the kids _ and he focuses on  _ you _ because if his brother thinks he’s worth saving maybe, maybe, maybe.

“What other choice do we have?” Ford asks, like Stan’s the one with the answers, like they’re eleven years old and Ford’s got a black eye and his sleeve between his teeth and he’s whispering  _ ya got a plan? _

And Stan’s nodding, back then and in real time, and he’s eleven and he’s slotting his five fingers between his twin’s six and squeezing and grinning and he’s too fuckin old for this shit and he’s saying, “Take your clothes off and trust me, okay?”

And Ford squints at him for a second but they still know each other better than they thought they did, as it turns out, ain’t that a goddamn tragedy, and Ford says “No.”

“Sixe-” Ford flinches, Stan clamps his mouth shut and undoes a button on his shirt. “Ford. What other choice do we have?” He says it with the same inflection Ford did a second ago, half to prove a point and half because his brain still remembers that he's most comfortable playing off of his brother’s interactions with the world - he even missed  _ that _ , shooting their own sentences back at each other because it's easier - for Stan, not for Ford who always seems to have more words ( _ when it’s just them, notably _ ) than he knows what to do with, even if they don’t always make the most sense, bubbling and pouring out of his mouth, words about nothing words about everything about space and the weather and fairytales and anything and everything he knows because that’s Ford, that’s always been Ford, excited about the world and trying to make Stan excited with him through sheer force of will, an enthusiastic brilliant wrecking ball to the knife of Stan’s well-rehearsed lines, an overwhelming wave of words like he knows everything about everything - than trying to hold a real conversation and when it's just them there's not much difference.

“Do you even understand what this means?” Ford snaps out, and then he's launching into a spiel because that's what he does, “Erasing Bill means erasing your mind, it means - it means  _ all _ of your memories, it means all of  _ you _ , it means the kids and every friend you’ve made the last forty years and - and our childhood and  _ you _ and you can't be serious about this.” He’s half-hysterical about it, Stan notes distantly. It’s a guilty sort of nice.

“What other choice do we have?” Stan repeats again, and his hands shake around his bowtie.

Ford grabs his wrists, looks at him, “I’ll think of something, I -”

“A minute ago you said the only option was giving him what he wanted and ending the world,” Stan says, even though he really doesn't wanna do this. It’s for the kids.

“A minute ago you weren't planning to sacrifice yourself!” Ford hisses back, angry and desperate, and Stan reads it in his hands balling up and straightening out, in the quick little movements he still  _ knows _ , “Stanley -”

Stan shakes his head, finishes taking his shirt off, grabs his brother’s wrist ready to make a point - and he reads pain in the recoil, in Ford’s posture snapping  _ in _ in a way that recalls childhood hours spent hiding in the blanket fort with his hands over his ears, that recalls closing the curtains the night that everything fell apart the first time, that recalls  _ I’m so sorry _ the night everything fell apart the second time, and Stan’s flinching back with him, “Fuck,  _ fuck, _ are you hurt.”

“I’m - it’s,” says Ford, and Stan’s reaching again to yank his brother’s sleeve down and there's a shiny red burn mark and.

That bastard’s going down.

“No time to argue,” Stan says quietly, seething, and Ford slips off his jacket and his sweater in a visible haze.

Lose a minute in between and then Bill’s back and they're staging a fight and Ford’s hands clutching his shoulders feel a little less like  _ this is an insanely risky move  _ and a little more like  _ I just got him back I can't lose him again _ . Stan takes comfort from that, at least.

And it’s all going up in smoke - 

And then there's nothing.

...

And then there's everything.

He wakes up in a forest. He doesn't know what forest, but there's a little girl in pink laughing and putting a hat on his head and - he - he’s - who is he, again? And the kid’s crying which strikes him as wrong in some vague way - little kids shouldn’t cry like the world’s ending.

And an old man says “You’re our hero, Stanley,” and he doesn't know why the part of his brain that says sadness is  _ this _ and  _ this  _ and  _ this _ is saying what it's saying when another louder part is registering hunched shoulders and a little rocking motion and the jacket around his shoulders moving as the man clenches and unclenches his fists in the fabric, is registering the boy across the clearing biting hard on his lip and the girl who called him  _ Grunkle Stan _ wrapping her arms around herself like a hug and both of them leaning into each other and a little rocking motion and a keening tuneless hum from somebody - that's what sadness is. That's what sadness feels like.

And it’s this: it’s a big guy crying in a corner, it’s those kids looking small and miserable, it’s desperate flicking through a scrapbook that’s this disorienting but nice kind of bright, it’s  _ somebody get Mabel’s da- _ darn _ pig out of his face _ .

Right.  _ Right _ .

That’s who he is. Sorta. Kinda? Look, if all he’s got of himself is the kids and Soos and the stupid pig he’s doing alright.

For a second, everything’s still.

And then the entire world lets out the collective breath it’s been holding, and they’re all nursing wounds and sinking into the - what is it? A chair? A couch? - unidentifiable seat, a symphony of pained noises, a symphony of the sort of strained laughter that means  _ we survived we survived they tried to kill us but we survived _ and he doesn’t know why it’s familiar but it is.

And then Soos is leaving - not for long, he promises - to check on other people and the kids are putting ice on each others’ spectacular bruises and the old guy - Ford, so the kids say - is wandering off with a mumbled vague excuse and Stan’s following on after because he saw some ridiculous burns on the guy when they switched clothes and he doesn’t really know much of anything except that he loves Dipper and Mabel and Soos and that he’s a cheat and that this guy was crying over him, so. So. And then he’s patching up a guy he barely knows in a destroyed bathroom and trying not to look at the mirror because his brain says  _ I don’t know who that is but it ain’t us, pal _ and his reflection is a glowing neon sign that he’s related to this guy who cried over him in the woods a little while ago, so. So.

“It’s okay that you don’t remember me yet,” says Ford, like he’s reading Stan’s fuckin mind, and when he sees whatever look’s on Stan’s face he laughs this weird sort of laugh like he’s a skip and a jump from tears and says, “I - You - I’m not good with emotions but you have the same ticks you’ve had since we were little, it’s not rocket science. And I’m saying that as an actual rocket scientist.”

Ford is a mess, all barely-restrained pain of several different flavors and trying not to be obvious about it like that ever did anybody any good, and Stan has this flash of a little kid sitting on the edge of a similar bathtub with his arms curled around his knees, a little rocking motion and blood on his face, and he doesn’t know if it’s just that he just met the guy and hasn’t seen that he’s actually well put-together or at least not a complete human disaster usually or if Ford the apparent actual real life rocket scientist is just like this all the time, but it makes this weird protective twisting feeling in his stomach happen so he kinda clunks their heads together like that’s how normal people do things and Ford laughs, watery, and Stan keeps cleaning burn tissue like it’s his job because it kinda is right now.

And Stan says, “Yeah, yeah, no need to show off, Poindexter,” and he pretends the pained noise that  _ wrenches _ itself out of Ford’s mouth is because Stan’s not being gentle enough cleaning the wide band of burned skin around his neck.

He relearns his life in pieces, traces his hands along walls and furniture and pretends to mind when his family grabs those wandering hands and pulls them close for just a second, just a breath, just a reassurance.

It’s the sound of people fixing up the Shack and pressing his hands firmly over his ears until Ford - who he’s still working on remembering, mostly what he has is fluttering fingers and the warm weight of  _ home _ in his gut - produces a pair of industrial earplugs in a fuzzily pleasing shade of red with a crooked little grin.

It’s waking up with the scream in his throat echoed elsewhere in the house, it’s tripping down to the kitchen and huddling around the table drinking vaguely-warm too-strong chocolate and Dipper explaining that he under-heated because burned tongues are  _ Bad _ and Mabel putting in that they get double chocolate because they saved the world two days ago, it’s the anxious bounce of Mabel’s legs and Dipper chewing his shirt with a vengeance and Ford tapping out some unrecognizable rhythm on the tabletop, it’s  _ did this happen, did that happen, did I do this, did you say that _ .

And it’s this: Ford is still notable in his memories mostly by his absence, four days in, and the kids either get a merciful night of peace or they’re holed up in their room comforting each other and not ready to tackle their personal demons - bad word choice! - as a family yet, so it’s this: Stan and Ford sitting in the kitchen and Ford’s posture is all  _ small, small, small enough to disappear maybe hopefully soon _ , and he says, “It’s - It’s  _ okay _ that you don’t remember me.”

And it’s this: Stan says “I might not know much but I know when you’re lying,” and he regrets it as soon as he says it because here is what else he knows: Ford is hurt, and Ford lost his brother four days ago because of an enemy that’s haunted him for years, no matter that Stan is standing right in front of him, because what he has is about five minutes of real memories of his brother, and they’re all at the end of the world, or the things he thought about then - a snatch of a few tiny Stanfords. He remembers thinking that Ford always has the words, the facts, when he’s passionate he can talk for days - not about emotions though, it seems. Not about their situation.

So it’s this: Ford says “I accepted it as a possibility.”

And it’s this: “You hate it, though,” because hands clenching and unclenching and fingers tapping and he gets the impression that body language is a myth and it’s actually a bunch of languages and whatever one Ford and Dipper and Mabel speak - is that the word - is his first, imprinted in his brain even when he doesn’t know what his own stupid name is, he gets the impression that he learned the subtleties of facial expression and complicated postures but the dialect he reaches for is dancing hands and shaking legs and bouncing on the balls of his feet - it’s comforting in this weird way where everything’s unfamiliar to the amnesiac but this is. Less unfamiliar. Or something.

Ford makes this off-kilter noise that masquerades as a laugh, “Maybe I deserve it if you don’t, maybe that’s what I get for almost ending the world, maybe -”

“ _ No _ ,” Stan says, half-desperate, and the word doesn’t feel like something he’s saying so much as proof of the sentiment  _ screeching _ through him, an angry rejection,  _ no _ , and the words are coming but they take a second and his hands flutter in the pause, trace a matched set of outraged circles in the air, “That’s  _ bullshit _ \- that’s - that - I don’t know much about whoever I was a week ago but  _ no _ because  _ that _ guy - thirty years trying to get you back, really, I taught myself  _ fucking theoretical physics _ \- and you never - you didn’t  _ know _ and my stupid mistakes and I started the dumb thing up and I didn’t regret it but you -” the words fall apart, Ford’s giving him a funny look, two parts hopeful to one part dazed and whip until frothy, and his hands move of their own accord in time with the “ _ What _ , Stanford,” that pops out from between his lips.

“Stanley.”

“ _ What _ .”

“ _ Stanley _ .”

And it’s like this: Stan actually hears what the hell he just said.

And it’s like this:  _ Oh _ . Right.  _ Right. _

And it’s like this, he throws his hands to the side like  _ well, that’s that _ , and Ford copies the motion but on him it’s a little more  _ well, finally _ .

And it all kinda hits him at once, all the missing pieces - well, no, there’s a huge chunk in the middle he’s lost and he can’t quite picture his dad but something quiet in his brain says  _ you don’t want that _ but - the important stuff.

The kids know  _ something’s _ different in the morning, and they’re a matched set of exuberant noise and pummeling affection and it’s easier after that.

And it’s like this: the kids turn thirteen and the day they have to go home with new traumas and full possession of the hearts of a couple of crusty old men really approached alarmingly fast, and Ford’s tugging him behind the house and - seriously, what kinda universe lets the kinda jerk Stan knows he is get a happy ending, but y’know what he’s not questioning it. It’s like this: Ford pulls out the most wrinkled, torn up photo Stan’s ever seen and he asks for a second chance and it’s an exhilarated buzz in the back of his brain and it’s an overwhelmingly good day and it’s like this: all four of them huddling in the living room excited to the point of shutdown and gathering themselves together and counting down the minutes until the summer officially ends.

And, yeah, it’s not perfect. The kids still call a few times a week because one or both of them had nightmares they can’t shake. Stan still zones out and forgets important shit for a little while and sometimes he’s just sad for no goddamn reason. Ford is still hurting and shaky and expecting that damn corn chip to jump out of any available shadow, but.

It’s like this: they get a boat. It’s like this: the kids sometimes just call because they wanna talk to their grunkles, all big smiles and dancing hands. It’s like this: Ford laughs too loudly in his ear and rambles about the current and giant squid and the northern lights. It’s like this: turns out they’re all the sort of people who get happy endings, isn’t that funny, isn’t it great.

Fin.


End file.
